


Curiosity Killed the Snake

by NotBreadPudding (Paranoia)



Series: A Series of Concerning Events [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crack Fic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Masturbation fic, No beta we fall like Crowley, OLHTS made me do it, Other, Things you shouldn't put your dick in, but this is honestly worse, gratuitous use of the term: eye caps, how do you tag something like this, of the worst variety, which makes it sound like skullfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paranoia/pseuds/NotBreadPudding
Summary: Crack prompt: Crowley's snake-y ways.I feel like i should self tag as Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. That's all the warning you're going to get.
Series: A Series of Concerning Events [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623268
Comments: 14
Kudos: 36





	Curiosity Killed the Snake

As an occult being who’d spent more time topside than not, most of it spent pining and lusting after a particular ethereal being, Crowley had some… questionable quirks. Humans had plenty of questionable quirks. Chewing with their awful mouths open, tentacle fantasies, _particular attachments to their vehicles_. It takes all sorts, and all that. The problem with humans, he thought, was that they were both insatiably curious, and just dumb enough to try anything a thousand times. Unfortunately, this was also Crowley’s problem, because God worked in mysterious ways or some shite. 

That said, one of his many oddities was shedding. His corporation was plenty fine to go on along as a human for time indeterminate, but there was nothing quite like the feeling of popping those little eye caps off and wriggling his way out of his shed, thick scales sliding over rough rocks and whatever else seemed a good idea. He enjoyed getting the perfect shed. No stuck scales, no tears. Collection worthy, if you were into that sort of thing. As far as it goes, this was hardly the worst of his little pleasures. The problem, of course, was that it fed into a significantly more… dubious pleasure. _The problem was_ he’d heard of The Stranger, and not felt particularly estranged from either of his hands in a good long while. Perhaps the mixture of numbing his hand and… switching it up every once in a while might have worked if his amorous affections were a little broader, but as it was they were extremely narrow. He’d had centuries to become as intimately familiar with another pair of hands as one could possibly be from a strictly platonic sort of view point, and his long, skinny fingers did not give him nearly enough to work with in the suspension of belief area. 

The problem was, as it so often is, a bit too much curiosity and far, far too much alcohol applied to a particular problem. Which is how Crowley had found himself blinking, just once (that fresh eye feel), as he stared at his shed. He’d generally preferred a smaller snake form when he shed, as even good things became tedious things when multiplied, and really it was… the perfect size. Curiosity, alcohol, and the gaping wound of desperation had tempted him to give The Stranger a new, concerning twist. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, the thought progressed from the small spark of ‘ _huh’_ into action without even a shred of filter. 

Crowley shivered in that sort of sick anticipation one has when they're doing something terribly taboo as he gently grasped the papery-white casing in his fist. Then, without letting the alarm bells in the back of his head that kept him from doing anything too psychologically damaging go off, he slid the snake skin over his rigid cock, held fast in his fist. It was very, very weird. It was just weird enough to lend right into that suspension of disbelief he’d been lacking, however, so rather than stopping and pretending this drunken mistake had never happened, he kept pumping his fist. He was gentle, exploratory, at first. Reveling in the almost scratchy, almost gossamer feel to it, until the fragile skin first tore, beading up where the friction caught against hot flesh. Awful as it would be in retrospect, this was even better, and, with caution now out the window, down the block and on fire in a bin in front of a shop, Crowley began to fuck his fist in earnest. Short, desperate strokes followed by long, langorous strokes to feel the full gamut of the sensations. He’d torn up the entirety of his shed by the time he was crying out an angel’s name, cum soaking his fist and snakeskin. 

Entirely blissed out on the post-orgasmic dopamine and oxytocin rush, Crowley passed out into a day-long nap before he’d had any time at all to consider what he’d done. When he finally roused a full thirty hours later, his fist and flaccid dick coated in an utterly awful mixture of dried semen and shed flakes, Crowley turned an appropriately mortified shade of red and miracled himself clean, before deciding that no miracle could possibly be enough and also ran the hottest shower that had, to date, ever been taken. 

Crowley no longer shed for pleasure. _Any_ kind of pleasure. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I refuse to apologize, because I cackled like a mad woman the entire time I wrote this. This is perfectly awful, and I hope it makes you as uncomfortable as it by all rights should.


End file.
